


After Survival

by Liron_aria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Consequences, Gen, I don't believe in happy endings, No closure, PTSD, Post-Soul Survivor, YOU HAVE TO FACE THEM DEAN, drunk!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liron_aria/pseuds/Liron_aria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's not a demon anymore. Sam plans to get drunk. The aftermath of 10.3 Soul Survivor</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Survival

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written because of my emotions after the episode and an anonymous prompt on Tumblr.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. If I did, Sam would get a ton more screen time, meaningful relationships with other characters, and Jess. Jess would come back.
> 
> But that is neither here nor there, so please, sit back and enjoy!

" - And then I’m going to get drunk."

Sam didn’t hear if Castiel had any response because his blood was roaring in his ears again, his hands were shaking, and his shoulder was trying to commit ritual suicide.

Or whatever what thing with the daemons from Phillip Pullman’s books was.

Christ, he was out of it.

Sam ran his good hand through his hair, feeling his eyes stinging and his hysteria rising.

It was over.

Dean was back, he wasn’t a demon, nights of searching and running on fumes and worrying, always worrying, had  _finally_  paid off.

He needed a drink. Or three.

His stomach growled, informing him that he also needed  _food_ , since the last time he’d eaten was before Cole got a hold of him, too busy escaping from getting the shit beaten out of him, dealing with Crowley, subduing Dean, getting him into the dungeon, trying to cure him, running like fucking  _prey_  through what was  _supposed_  to be his own home -

Okay, stopping that train of thought there, or he was going to have a breakdown right in the garage. Or vomit. One of the two.

He pulled the keys to the car he used the most out of his pocket, wryly sending up thanks to his father for teaching him and Dean to be ambidextrous. Well, the man could sure as Hell have done it without being a drill sergeant and and wanting to make him tear his own hair out, but whatever. Turned out it saved his life after all.

Okay. Diner, then liquor store.

Sam pulled off on to the side of the road sharply a few minutes later, clamping his free hand over his mouth to keep the sob-laugh-hysteria from breaking free.

_Oh God oh God oh God he had the shit beaten out of him he walked through tear gas he cured his brother he couldn’t kill Dean couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t Dean tried to kill him Dean hated him oh God -_

The sob broke free against Sam’s will and he shut his eyes tight, as if that would stop his tears, but it couldn’t stop his shoulders shaking. For the first time in the past two? three? days, in the past couple  _months_ , he finally had time to breathe, and all he wanted to do was  _run_ , to curl up and cry, to  _not think._  He needed  _away_ , for once, just to breathe, to find himself a again, to remember where Dean ended and he began.

God, he needed a drink.

It took Sam a while to get himself back under control, trembling hand wiping away treacherous tears. His bad arm continued screaming at him, but a little pain was nothing compared to what he’d just been through.

And Dean was alive.

Dean was human.

If he just thought about that, held on to the quickly fading euphoria of saving his brother, maybe he could keep himself together just a little bit longer.

He got a worried look from Marsha behind the counter when he gave her his order. “You want me to throw a salad in there, sweetie?”

Sam smiled wanly, inwardly in a haze of wonder that he’d actually stayed in one place long enough for someone to know his preferred food. “No, it’s - uh, it’s just for my brother. I’m fine.”

Marsha’s lips turned down at the corners but she went to get his order ready. Sam stared at the display case with pies and tarts in it and resisted the urge to vomit. He was so keyed up right now that just the thought of food made him nauseous, no matter his stomach’s protests.

The clerk at the liquor store looked at him warily, too, but that probably had more to do with him buying enough alcohol to give himself and five people alcohol poisoning.

"I’m not planning on drinking it all myself," he promised dryly.

The clerk gave him a side-eye. “Yeah, well, in your condition…”

Five minutes later, Sam winced as he struggled to pull the trunk of his car open with his unoccupied hand - the bad one, unfortunately. It was at times like these that he missed the Dodge Charger he’d had when soulless - it may have been years ago, but the damn thing was comfortable and had a remote to open the trunk.

The drive back to the bunker passed in a blur, and Sam could feel his shoulders tense up and the last few days flare up in his mind in a cacophony of  _stress-worry-pain-guilt-despair-_

Just a few more minutes.

He had to hold on for a few more minutes, focus on the memory of holy water having no effect on Dean’s face instead of hearing Dean confirm every secret fear he’d ever had about his life - that he was the reason his mother -  _Dean’s_  mother, not his, never really his - that he had ruined Dean’s life - no,  _no,_ that wasn’t Dean, couldn’t have been, he had to believe Dean still loved him -

Crashing into the door with his bad shoulder jolted out of his spiralling thoughts.

Just a few more minutes.

Sam left the alcohol in his room and went to knock on Dean’s door.

"What, Cas?"

Sam pushed the door open and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh, not Cas. I stopped by the diner downtown, got you some burgers and pie. If you’re interested.”

Dean stared at him for a moment and then cracked a weak smile. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”

Sam prayed to God his face didn’t show how hard those words hit him, because  _how could Dean think he would -_

Dean’s smile fell away and Sam swallowed convulsively. “Anyway. If you need anything else, just, uh, let me know.”

Sam closed the door behind him, trying to process the fact that he’d had to say that to his  _brother_ , as if they were  _strangers._

Whiskey. Whiskey would be fan-fucking-tastic right now.

He collapsed against his bed, and realised with a start how exhausted he was, because his fifty-year-old mattress suddenly felt like heaven. It was over. Dean was human. He saved his brother. He brought Dean back home.

He saved his brother.

It felt like such a hollow victory, Dean’s cruel words -  _not_  Dean’s, the  _demon’s_ \- still ringing in his ears, adrenaline  _still_  pumping through his veins from running through the bunker trying not to get killed.

He’d been terrified.

He’d been honest-to-god  _terrified_  of Dean, for the first time in all thirty-plus years of his life.

Dean had hit him before, punched him, yelled at him, the whole deal. But he’d never tried to kill him. Never  _enjoyed_  it. And Sam wasn’t stupid - no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t chalk all that up to the demon inside him. Dean had gotten out of the cuffs and the Devil’s trap because there was more human in him that demon - his mostly  _human_  brother despised him enough to try and kill him.

_"Sammy!"_

Fuck, he was never going to be able to hear that name without a jolt of terror.

Just like he didn’t like anyone touching the back of his neck, thank you Lucifer.

And now they were back where they were before Dean died - the Mark of Cain on Dean’s arm, a constant blanket of tension and passive-aggression in the air.

Sam set his glass on his bedside table and filled it high. Here was to blacking out enough that he’d forget the entire past several months.

 

* * *

 

Dean shoved another forkful of pie in his mouth, staring at the wall and trying not to think.

How the fuck was he supposed to process being a demon?

How the fuck was he supposed to process beating the shit out of people and killing them just because they annoyed him?

How the fuck was he supposed to process  _enjoying_  all that?

And, at the end of it all,  _how the everloving fuck was he supposed to deal with Sam?!_

This was what he’d meant all those months ago - he was poison, the people around him got hurt.

_Sammy_  got hurt.

He should have stayed away, far away, but Sammy kept coming after him. Fucking hell,  _now_  the kid decided to toe the family line. Of course.

His little brother had no sense of self-preservation when it came down to it, when he had a goal in sight. He just hoped the whole deathwish thing wasn’t coming back, that was harrowing enough to deal with in the first place.

He leaned his head back against the wall, the stretch of his skin reminding him that Sam had held a  _knife_  to his throat. Not just any knife, their demon-killing knife. He’d aimed a hammer at Sammy’s head, intent on crushing his skull, and Sam had held a knife to his throat in response. Just held it. No broken skin, barely any pressure, and he’d  _dropped_  it at the last minute.

If it wasn’t for Cas stepping in, Sam’d probably be dead by now, and that blood would be on his hands, along with Kevin.

Fucking Hell.

There was so much Dean didn’t want to think about.

Didn’t want to think about how  _free_  he’d felt as a demon, how much he enjoyed it,  _needed_  it.

Didn’t want to think about the people he’d killed, about the First Blade sliding through flesh like butter, about bones crunching under his fists and blood coating his fingers.

Didn’t want to think about the fresh slice of half-eaten pie in his room, along with the pie Sam had brought him, because that said things about Sam he really didn’t want to know.

Didn’t want to think about how thin Sam had gotten without Dean looking out for him, about the heavy sling still holding his arm in place. They’d reset each other’s shoulders plenty of times, how bad had it been that Sam actually had to go get a proper sling for it?

Was Sam even going to tell him?

His gaze fell on the photos scattered on his bed - Mom, Dad, Bobby… and him and Sam.

Him and Sam laughing back when Sammy’d just been a kid fresh out of college.

Him and Sammy enjoying a beer. When had they last done that? Just… sat and hung out?

Dean’s head fell back against the wall. He was a fucking  _wreck._  Anger, disbelief, guilt, shock - everything swirling and bouncing around in his brain and he had no idea where to even  _begin_  dealing with any of it. He wasn’t the Dr. Phil type, that was Sammy.

A while later, Dean found himself outside Sam’s door, hand on the doorknob.

"Hey, Sammy -"

Sam jerked back in his bed hard crack his head against the wall, dropping his glass of whiskey and grabbing the demon knife from his bedside table.

They stood frozen in a tableau, Dean with the door half-opened, and a surprised expression on his face, and Sam with his knife held out to protect him, his body curled to protect his shoulder and his internal organs.

Just like he was trained to do when facing a threat that could kick his ass.

"… Sammy…"

Sam flinched, as if steeling himself. “Dean?”

Dean’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “Maybe I should come back letter…”

Sam sighed and lowered his weapon. He chuckled brokenly. “Man of the hour. What do you need?”

Dean blinked for a moment, and remembered the last thing Sam had said to him.

_“If you need anything else, just let me know.”_

As if that need to be said between them, as if they were strangers. Well, Sam  _was_  the one who’d said they weren’t brothers anymore. Maybe that was a good thing.

Dean cleared his throat. “I don’t - don’t need anything, Sammy, just, uh, wanted to check in.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah. Okay. You’ve checked in, you can go back to… uh, whatever.”

Dean frowned. “Look, Sam… About what happened earlier, what with the whole…” he waved awkwardly, trying to find the words, “Look, man, it’s been rough, the last couple weeks, y’know?”

Sam scoffed, reaching for the bottle. “Yeah, I got that.”

Dean watched as Sam took a deep swig of - what was that, scotch? His room practically smelled like a distillery at this point.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Great talk, Dean. We should do it again sometime.”

Dean snorted. “Good to see you’re still bitchy on booze.”

Sam stilled, swallowing, his expression tightening. He looked that exhausted and strained when pumping him full of blood, too, Dean realised.

Ah, shit.

"Sam -"

"What do you  _want_ , Dean?!” Sam demanded, standing up with remarkably controlled stability. “Can we leave the orders and charging ahead to the next hunt until tomorrow? After everything, can we just -  _not_?”

Dean reared back, hurt and stunned. “Sam, relax, I’m not here about - about orders or the next hunt or whatever you think - what the  _Hell_ , man?”

Sam rolled his eyes again, waving the bottle. “If you can’t figure that out, there’s nothing I can say, is there?”

Dean sighed. “Okay, big guy, you’re drunk -“

"No,  _really?_ I  _wonder fucking why.”_

Dean winced. “Okay, I guess I deserve that -“

"You  _guess -_ " Sam broke off, laughing bitterly, tears gathering in his eyes. "Get out, Dean."

"Sammy -"

Sam hurled the bottle of scotch at Dean’s head.  _"GET OUT!"_

Dean scrambled back, closing the door quickly to protect himself. He heard Sam drop to his knees, heart-rending sobs making it through the door. Dean rested his forehead against the door.

Fuck.

Four hours later, Dean knocked on his little brother’s door again. Hearing no answer, he pushed the door open. Sam was passed out on his bed, arm still in its sling and demon-killing knife in his free hand. His face was wet, and his sleep looked anything but peaceful.

Where did they go from here?

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Please, let me know!


End file.
